


i've seen them gentle tame and meek (that are now wild)

by okayantigone



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Laurent in a dress, M/M, cOURTLY DRAMA, fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: Desperate to escape the Regent's court at Arles, and constant attempts on his life, Laurent begins a dangerous game with the bastard prince of Akielos, which may easily cost them both their lives.Determined to wear a crown at any cost, Kastor considers his options, all too aware that he's become a pawn in the games of Vere's royal family.And Laurent wears a wedding dress.





	i've seen them gentle tame and meek (that are now wild)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Captive Prince Big Bang, which i am extremely pleased with, and which has some lovely art coming with it, by the talented chuislane on tumblr.  
> It was such a rush to do this, and I am so happy with how both fic & art have turned out. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

KASTOR

It was easier than he’d thought to get Damen’s blessing on the marriage. If anything, his brother was overjoyed, his cheeks creasing with dimples as he smiled brilliantly, clapping him on the shoulder and congratulating him. 

“If anyone can tame the bitch prince of Vere, it’s certainly going to be you,” he’d said, cheerful and bright. Then he’d sobered, thanked Kastor for working tirelessly for the good of Akielos, and his eyes – always so open and kind- had been searching through Kastor’s face, as if to find any hint of unwillingness there, any indication that he was not so eager for the marriage as he claimed. 

That naked vulnerability was like a dagger in his gut. He was unworthy of his brother’s kindness in the face of what he had nearly done. The good of Akielos. Yes. He could spend a thousand lifetimes trying to atone for it, and it wouldn’t matter because Damen would never know. 

The messages he’d been exchanging with the Regent had suddenly stopped. The end to the missives was suspiciously timed with the arrival of Guyon’s youngest son to Ios. Aimeric was a favored member of the prince’s private guard, but – so Guyon said – had been injured in training. The Prince had been very kind to send him to convalesce with his father in Akielos, where he might pick up the diplomatic trade as well. 

Kastor knew that Guyon was the Regent’s man. Previously Guyon had said Aimeric too, was the Regent’s man. But none of Kastor’s messages had made it to Vere. And he had received no response from the elusive snake bastard either. Meanwhile, Aimeric, fresh and pure as rain, carefully hobbled around, leaning on his ivory cane, and looking for all the world like a the perfect picture of wide-eyed innocence. He loved Ios, he said, and all the sun. The flowers in the gardens charmed him, and the sport filled him with regret at being unable to participate. Damen, as was his manner, was utterly charmed. 

“Do not fuck the Veretian ambassador’s son,” Kastor said. Damen looked affronted. 

And then the first letter came. Innocently, sweetly, penned in halting Akielon, Guyon’s son asked if he may be afforded a moment of prince Kastor’s time. But there was nothing innocent, sweet or halting about the way in which he held himself when he handed Kastor the stack of letters he’d been exchanging with the Regent. 

“Prince Laurent is not pleased, said the boy in his accented Akielon. Then switched to Veretian to add: “Your brother will not be pleased either, I imagine. Your father lay dying, and you seek to usurp him? It is not a very good look, is it?” 

He leaned his hip on the back of the chair. He had refused to take a seat, looking at Kastor with an expression somewhere between serious and amused. 

“And what is it that ah – that Prince Laurent wants to do about this?” Kastor asked finally. If he were Veretian, he may have spent the next few hours trading veiled remarks with the Prince’s boy, but he was Akielon, and he intended to get this over with as soon as possible. He had enough honor left to be willing to face the consequences of his actions. 

“He wants to marry you,” said Aimeric, and his voice clearly indicated that he disapproved of the prince’s plan. 

Kastor was glad he was not holding anything at the moment, or he would have dropped it. 

“Beg pardon?” 

“Prince Laurent of Vere wishes to marry you, Prince Kastor, and when the time comes, you will become King Consort of Vere.” Aimeric says very slowly and in Akielon. 

Kastor’s hand finds the edge of the table, and he carefully manages to take a seat. He leans his elbows on his knees, hides his face in his hands, and breathes. 

When he finally looks up, Aimeric is still looking at him expectantly. “Well?” 

“What does Prince Laurent seek to gain by this?” he asks finally. If he is to be a pawn, he’d at least like to know what the strategy is. 

“I cannot pretend to know what my prince thinks,” Aimeric says seriously. Kastor actually believes him. He may have been good at lying and pretending, but not that good. 

“Very well,” says Kastor. “I shall start courting him then, shall I?” 

Aimeric nods, as though he didn’t expect a different answer. 

“Don’t you at least want to see a picture of him?” he asks after a while. Kastor realizes he hasn’t dismissed him, and he is too conscientious, and too aware of rank to leave without his permission. 

“If you have a likeness of him, I would want to look at it, yes,” he says quietly. The Veretian surprises again, by producing a miniature of the prince. He is not bad looking – slender, blonde, and blue eyed. He looks like Jokaste, only slightly sharper. Yes, Kastor thinks. He can live with this. 

King Consort in Vere, or forever a bastard prince in Akielos? The answer is quite clear to him. 

“Let me – “ Damen had paused, looking between the closed doors to their father’s rooms and Kastor’s face. “Let me see that I have understood – you mean to court, become engaged to, and marry the crown prince of Vere, for the purpose of solidifying the peace between our countries?” 

“Yes.” 

“What has brought this on?” 

“Aimeric.” 

“The ambassador’s son?” 

“Yes, he – talks a lot about the prince… and I – Well.” Kastor knows he has to play this well. “Damianos,” he begins seriously. “Our father lay dying. Soon you will be king. I fear that in the interim Vere may see us as weak, and see fit to strike. If I were married, or at least egaged to the prince – “ 

Damen nods rapidly, and raises a hand to silence him. “Yes, yes. I know all of that, I do, but Kastor – there is no other reason, is there? I have not made you feel – I have not made you feel as though you need to leave, have I? You will not be cast away when I am King – I can promise you that. I had hoped that I may rely on you to advise – “ 

“Damen. I do love you,” Kastor is not lying. Not entirely. Even beneath the resentment and jealousy, it is impossible not to love Damen. “But I need to do this. For myself. If I am successful in courting the prince, if I am married to him – in Vere I will be King Consort. And here, I will only ever be a bastard, who owes his standing to you and father’s mercy.” 

Damen steps back, as though struck. His jaw works, but no words come out. Then he shakes his head. “You’re right. Forgive me – I was being selfish. But you are right – if this is what you want – what you truly want – then by all means – court the Veretian prince. He is very young, so be good to him, and if you are successful, know that none will be as happier as I.” 

His smile is brighter than the sun. And so, Kastor’s new plan is a go, and he uses Aimeric to pass on his first letter to Laurent, and an official letter announcing his intention to court the prince to the Regent. 

It pleases him to imagine the snake’s face when he realizes that their shared venture is no longer so shared. He knows the Regent from their exchanges – knows how to play this game so that he wins. And he hopes Laurent knows his uncle enough to pull it off. The price for a miscalculation, in any case, will be Kastor’s own head. 

LAURENT

He receives the letter from Aimeric with a pleased smile, folds it, and burns it on the candle at his vanity, before standing up. he’s swept his hair up at the top of his head, and pinned it in place. Summer in Arles is not as brutal as it could be, certainly not as it will be in Ios, but he still loathes the heat. 

He’s just finished pressing a stain to his lips when the servant comes in to call him to his uncle’s side. He schools his face into the appropriate indifference, but he is singing inside. Finally, his game is coming together. Thinking of it as a game is the only way he can convince himself to follow through. To marry the brother of his brother’s killer… to get out of Arles with his head still attached to his shoulders. 

Nicaise takes his hand loosely between his own, still childishly chubby fingers. He is wearing a magnificent collar today, thick as his neck, and adorned with diamonds the size of his fists, and his lips are a daring crimson. They must make a pretty picture, well-matched in their blue clothes, blue eyes. Laurent vainly thinks, between the two of them, he is still the one who knows how to play his uncle’s strings better, hence the curl of his lip when he enters the throne room, casting an imperious look around him. 

The courtiers shuffle uncomfortably, and only Berenger meets his eyes. Laurent would have to come up with a suitable reward for his continues silent loyalty and support. It’s more than he can say he’s been shown by half the men in this room, who still think him a silly child what needs teaching by his oh-so-patient uncle. If only they knew what his uncle taught him. 

Nicaise skips over to his master’s side, taking a comfortable seat beside the throne, and popping a cherry in his mouth, but his eyes are on Laurent, sharp and inquisitive. His throat must be getting rubbed raw by the collar, but he keeps his head proudly straight. 

“You wished to see me, Uncle?” Laurent says mildly, every inch the idle youth. 

“I have received,” says his uncle, and his throat moves as he swallows. Laurent had laid kisses on it once, just as he’d imagined strangling it. Sometimes he can’t tell if he stil loves his uncle or wants him dead. That’s why he must get away. “I have received a message from Ios,” he announces. 

The reactions are not as shocked and extreme as Laurent thought. Which means most of these people already know. This is another one of the Regent’s games. Uncle loves nothing better than a spectacle. Laurent is ready to give a performance for the ages. Play this right, and he may be the first Veretian king to finally bring the unruly Akielon brutes to boot. Play this wrong, and he will lose his kingdom and his head. 

“A message?” he frowns, twists his lips, displeasure. Yes, he is so very displeased, and he doesn’t even know the news yet. 

“Prince Kastor of Akielos has requested permission to court you. With his brother’s blessing.” 

Yes. Laurent thinks. “No!” he says, emphatically. How often had it been the opposite with them, thinking no, and saying yes all the same, and as usual his protests do not make his uncle stop this time either. 

“He has the blessing of King Regent Damianos, as well as the blessing of his father king Theomedes. This will do much to strengthen the alliance.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Laurent says, putting the right amount of insultd disbelief into his voice. “You would sell me to an Akielon bastard,” he snarls the last word. 

“Laurent,” says his uncle. He will kill so many birds with this stone. Get rid of the unruly nephew. Get an Akielon brute to tame him. Oh, Uncle. If his hand and his crop didn’t do it, Prince Kastor doesn’t stand a chance. 

Laurent looks at him pleadingy. “Please,” he says. “I know what is right for Vere. And what is right for Vere cannot be to have its king married to a foreign bastard!” 

His Uncle smiles kindly on him. Laurent summons his strength and steels himself. His ribcage is bruised, and his heart is spoilt, but he’s won this round, and his uncle doesn’t even know it. 

“Prince Kastor will court you. And you will accept it, and you will wed him. He brings Delpha as his dowry.” 

Oh. Well, that is an interesting development. The Akielon moves fast. Dangling the promise of becoming King in front of him really did the trick. Uncle had the right idea, playing the older one. And clearly, he thinks that he and Prince Kastor are still on the same page. If he were still one for childish things, he would clap his hands, but he contains himself to a restrained bow of his head. 

“I understand, Uncle,” he says, and makes sure his voice carries. “I will do this for the good of Vere,” he sighs, lets his shoulders sag – it’s a small thing, but his uncle will notice. The more displeased Laurent is, the more likely he is to get sent to Ios soon, if only to exacerbate his situation. Well. 

“If I may… make a small request of you?” Laurent says, and makes sure his voice is on the precipice of the meek nephew requesting a rare gift, and the man who will one day be king making a demand of an equal. It’s a tough balance to strike, but he knows how to lower his lashes still to make Uncle consider small mercies to him. 

“Anything for you, dear nephew,” says his Uncle, too pleased with his victory. 

“As my wedding gift,” Laurent begins, voice sweet, “I don’t want to ask much of you, when you have been so generous with me already,” he makes sure his words are heard. A scolded child getting back in the favor of the adults. He will enjoy parading their heads mounted on pikes through Arles. “Will you please give me Nicaise’s contract?” 

He lets the words drop from his mouth and smiles small, and shy. How is Uncle supposed to refuse him now, when he has agreed to be courted by the barbarian. 

“My dear nephew,” says his uncle, but his fingers dig into the arm of his padded throne, “how could I ever refuse you?” 

Oh, Laurent thinks, just you wait. 

KASTOR  
Kastor received an official letter from the Regent, granting his permission for his nephew to be courted, and he receives a letter from Laurent’s spy thanking him for his swift action, and for Delpha. Kastor hadn’t been the one to offer Delpha up, but Damen – sweet noble fool Damen – could not believe in his heart of hearts that he could bear to have the brother of the man he killed in his home if he didn’t attempt to do something to assuage his guilt.so now Kastor’s dowry rivaled that of Damen himself. If his brother would indeed ever consider getting married. 

He and Jokaste seemed perfectly content to dance around each other for now, and he knows what Damen doesn’t know, that she will soon leave, gather up all the favors she is owed and all the silks she has been gifted, and hide her beautiful face in the Vaskian mountains, to make peace with what the two of them had almost done. 

“I can’t look at him,” she had said, “I can’t stand letting him touch me, or letting you touch me, for that matter, because every time I close my eyes I see my hands red with his blood, and I hate you both too much to bear.” 

Kastor accepts that. Damen won’t, but Jokaste is prepared to spin yarns of her family’s historically weak lungs, and the mountain air. Women like her are not easily brought down by guilt, and he may even see her before his wedding. The rumors and private missives he received all indicated prince Laurent had thrown the Veretian equivalent of a fit upon finding the news out from his uncle. It made Kastor wonder where this whole plot was headed, but he still reread laurent’s letter before brning it. 

he would do anything, knowing I hated it. 

He sends the prince a portrait of himself, and a letter expressing deep admiration for his academic inclinations and the praises he’s heard of his beauty and intellect, his desire to make their kingdoms come at peace once more. 

It’s all sweet empty nothings, and Laurent responds with a portrait of his own, and a letter filled with similar nothings, and a platitutde of how handsome he finds Kastor which rings shockingly true. 

Aimeric has taken a lot of time to taking aimless strolls through the palace gardens, and ambushing Kastor to talk to him of his prince. 

“You know he hasn’t been in love before,” Aimeric says, his eyes focused on a peach high up on one of the blooming trees. “His guard joke about it. No one’s been to his rooms – they call him a cast iron bitch. You might burn hotter making love to a glacier.” 

“You’ve already convinced me he’s the one,” Kastor says sardonically. Aimeric laughs, and rings sweet and high, and then he flinches as if ashamed and shakes his head. 

“He can’t stand to be touched,” he continues, as though he didn’t just talk over the Prince of a nation in a precarious diplomatic standing regarding his own. “He pretends he can, but I can tell.” 

“And that’s all fascinating,” Kastor says. He is sending Laurent the most rare, sweetest fruit in Akielos, and as many bright blooming flowers as can survive the journey, and letters full of speeches about the great beauty of his country. 

“I am saying it to make you understand. The Prince is not doing this lightly,” Aimeric says, he slants a sharp eye at Kastor, and he is instantly reminded the young man in front of him, slight and unthreatening as he may be, is a born Veretian noble, and a trained member of the prince’s guard. He could be dangerous if he wanted to. If he wasn’t faking his ill health to spy on his father. 

Kastor can’t pretend he doesn’t recognize the green envy of the forgotten other child in him. Enough to topple a kingdom in a bid for proving one’s own worth. 

“And I am not entering into it lightly either,” Kastor says, voice raising slightly. He isn’t sure why this is making him angry. Laurent’s letters are all beautifully penned, but they reveal nothing of who the boy he will marry truly is. He is young, and he is intelligent, and he is quick witted, fluent in Veretian and Akielon, with a burgeoning interest in the cloth industry, of all things, but a loathing of agricultural policy, despite grasping its necessity. It still reveals nothing. It still means nothing.

All he knows is that he is young, and he is beautiful, and for some reason, he is desperate to escape his uncle’s court, into the arms of a barbarian he hates simply for being the brother of a prince killer. 

And yet. 

Laurent sends him a book of erotic poetry that makes him blush into the late hours of the night, and then summon Kallias. His beautiful boy does wonders for his temper. He wonders if he’s been neglecting the slave lately. Kallias is the true treasure in his harem, sweet and loyal to boot, but there is a steel within him that Kastor appreciates and trusts. 

LAURENT

Laurent is surprised to discover the man who would be his husband is handsome. He is broad, and there is a darkness in his heavy lidded eyes that appeals to him. There is a cycle of poetry in Veretian, of a handsome fire god who dragged the spirit of death into the earth, and burned cities to keep his company. That’s the backdrop to the erotic bits, which he still found infinitely more interesting. Akielons were strangely prudish, for a culture that bred beautiful men and women like cattle for pleasure. 

He sends the book to his bethrothed and wonders how he will react. Aimeric has sent no letters, which means the situation at Ios hasn’t much changed. For now, it’s simply worth it to have Aimeric somewhere where he will no longer have to look at his Uncle’s hateful face. Best that at least one of them be moving into this with a clear head, unmuddled by honeyed words and the ghos of touches that once felt tender and touching. 

Nicaise comes into his bedroom bleeding between his thighs, throat and wrists bruised, face wet with tears, and crawls between his sheets, shaking. 

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That you’d take my contract as a wedding gift?”

“Of course,” Laurent says, resting his palm flat against the boy’s skinny back. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” 

Nicaise buries his face in Laurent’s neck. “You have to promise me,” he says. “You have to promise that you will get me out of here.” 

Laurent nods, and kisses the mess of perfumed curls. “I promise.” 

Nicaise squeezes his eyes shut, and his heart flutters helpleslly like a trapped bird. Finally, he says, “I believe you.” 

Laurent lets him sleep until late in the day, and the two of them read Kastor’s most recent letter together, as Laurent helps Nicaise sound out the vowels and consonants. Kastor writes in Veretian with the Akielon slant to the right. It’s interesting, and it suits him. He takes a small consolation that the man he has sold himself to is handsome and eloquent. At least he will not spend much time with a blubbering brute. 

“Tell Uncle I am incensed. Tell him I have nothing but words of vitriol for Prince Kastor, and the thought of marrying him has sent me to turn my breakfast back up. Tell him I hate the thought of Ios, and hope that this will just be a long and fruitless engagement that won’t result in a marriage.” 

Nicaise studies Laurent carefully. 

“When you buy my contract,” he says, which is a complete nonsequitor, and grabs Laurent’s attention to the fullest, “Will you take me to Ios as a pet?” 

Laurent shakes his head. “When you come with me to Ios, you will come as a free man, and you can choose what to do there. You could become a courtier, or a soldier, or a cloth merchant.” 

“What is it with you and cloth?” 

“I always figured it might be something I’d like to do, if I wasn’t to be king,” Laurent shrugs, and gets that faraway look in his eyes that means he’s been thinking of Auguste. 

“Everyone will always know I was your uncle’s whore first,” Nicaise says sourly, sobered from the thought. 

Laurent’s eyes are hard as glass. “So was I,” he says quietly, voice flat, and Nicaise lets it go with a deep sigh, and a shake of his head. 

Laurent will always be a king and a victim. Nicaise… well. He asked for it. 

He hops off the high chair, and straightens out the pearl net in his hair, making his quiet way through the halls like a ghost in his white silk shirt, and back into the monster’s bed, to wake him with his mouth and clever hands, lest he earn himself another slap. 

It had been good of Ancel to show him how to hide his bruises with the paints, but he didn’t much fancy a refresher lesson. 

ERASMUS

Erasmus loves nothing so much as he does kneeling at the foot of the King’s bed, awaiting his orders. His king is a kind and patient man, a good man, honest in his joy, and in his sorrow. Erasmus would have taken anything his king would give him, be is pleasure of pain. He had heard of masters who would strike their slaves when displeased, deprive them of food and water… But even in moments of anger, Damianos does not turn to him in cruelty. 

He coaxes Erasmus in his arms after, when the storm has been weathered, when he has thrown a glass to the floor, and screamed at his friend, the Kyros, and tugged at his own hair in fury. 

“Did I frighten you?” he’s ask tenderly, and Erasmus would always shake his head. 

The King was a powerful, domineering lover, but after those displays, he was always sweeter, and slower, and kinder, in a way that made Erasmus wonder if maybe this is how he would have made love with Kal –

That thought is forbidden. He is happy to serve his beautiful master, the King Regent of Akielos, and to be in his bed almost every night, to be called to soothe his rage, and assuage him in his fear, and wipe his furious tears away. The King’s words are sacred, and so is the secret he whispers in the hair Erasmus keeps light and soft just for him 

“I am not ready to be a king yet. I am not ready to be without my father yet. Kastor should have been King, and I am merely a boy.”

But Erasmus doesn’t have the words to promise that in his narrow understanding of the world, there will only ever be one king, and that Prince Kastor too may be handsome and charming and kind, but it is the name Damianos that brings a warmth to the white stones that make up the palace of Ios. 

He does what he has been taught to do instead, reassuring with his mouth in a different way, planting kisses to the palms where anxious nails have broken skin, and to the forehead creased with worry for an ailing father, who too, was known for his kindness. 

“What you’re doing isn’t right,” says the Nikandros, the kyros who is his master’s friend, and sometimes lover, the one who takes Erasmus’ place in bed when he is in the capital. “You killed his brother – it was a fair fight yes, but you killed his brother, and now your own brother will marry him? And you are giving Delpha back to boot!” 

It is a conversation they have had many times before. 

“How long do you think it would take Vere before they attack again? They lost the war! They lost their royal line bar two! We give them Delpha back, we send Kastor to bed their stone prince, and maybe, in twenty years, I won’t have to cut him down in the same field again!” 

He rubs absently at the scar that mars his shoulder, and waves his hand. “I’ve promised you land that will replace Delpha. You will keep your title, and your slaves, and your men. So why are you here again, having the same conversation with me?” 

“Because I fear that your worry for your father, and your kindness to Kastor has blinded you!” the Kyros snaps. “Did you not think, even for a second, of how strange Kastor’s timing is – your father lay dying and he thinks of an advantageous marriage to a foreign prince! A prince who may well wish to have your head on a pike for the murder of his dearly beloved brother, from what I gather are the rumos in Arles.” 

Damianos looks tired in a way even Erasmus, with his sweet kisses, and the tea he brings from the kitchens, can’t hope to heal. “You think I haven’t thought of it?” he asks quietly, his shoulders falling. “You think I don’t keep thinking it? Kastor would never betray me, he is my brother – but he is blinded by his lust for a throne he may have gotten if not for me. You think I don’t wonder to myself if he will sell himself to a Veretian snake for a chance to rule?” 

He leans back in his chair. “And if he has done? And if he has plotted my betrayal already? What can I do to stop him? How can I reason with him? Kastor will do what he will, and then we will face his actions.” 

“If you live long enough to face his actions,” Nikandros says, voice almost too quiet to hear, but the King catches it, slams his fist on the table in a fury, and snarls something unintelligible. 

The kyros storms out. As always, after a conversation like this, Erasmus is bid to bring him griva, and his lyre, and sing songs of some glorious battle, until the king sees fit to pull him into his lap. 

Erasmus wonders if prince Kastor is prone to the same dark moods now. He cannot – would not believe that anyone, let alone the king’s own brother – could ever betray him. Kallias says prince Kastor is – well. He is not happy, but he is not despondednt either. He goes to sleep with a smile on his face, and takes Kallias several times a night, while moaning the Veretian prince’s name. Kallias has seen the painting the foreign prince sent. 

“He is handsome, I suppose. He looks like the Lady Jokaste, only more masculine.” Then after a beat, “He has a cruel mouth.” 

“But prince Kastor?” 

“He wants to marry,” Kallias says, in a voice that suggest he knows more, but will not betray his master’s confidence. Erasmus does not pry. 

BERENGER

Berenger keeps a close eye on their young crown prince. It’s easy enough to do. He is a middle aged man of middle importance. His estates aren’t small enough to invite mockery, nor large enough to prompt him being pursuited, he is not terrible handsome, or hideously ugly, and he doesn’t have a terribly prolific sexual appetite that would require him owning a harem of pets. Indeed, he is satisfied with Ancel’s contract, and his alone. 

Ancel is the most valuable thing he owns. 

He is beautiful. Berenger would not have bought his contract if he wasn’t, and he is clever, and quick. He knows how to speak, and he knows how to return to Berenger’s arms with what others have told him in response. And in the court of Vere that is the most valuable thing indeed. 

Berenger knows Ancel wishes he were owned by someone of a higher standing, but Guion has left, and the Regent has his distasteful little doll of a boy, and Prince Laurent will soon be wed to the Akielon prince, sent effectively in exile to the land of monstrous barbarians until the time for his coronation arrives. He is taking it with a dignity and poise that does him and his bearing credit. 

Ancel reports that in his rooms, he burns Kastor’s letters, and smashes his wine glasses into the floor when Ios is spoken of. That is what Nicaise has said. The Regent’s pet with the dancing eyes would have no reason to lie, Berenger thinks, not when the prince practically demanded his contract. Most of the court had taken it in stride. 

Like Uncle, like nephew, they said, and as long as he gave an heir to his line eventually, they could look the other way for an endless parage of bejeweled children. They had done it so long for his uncle, after all, and the two of them shared the same name and the same eyes, and it was no surprise they shared this as well. 

Berenger never partook in this kind of talk. It didn’t sit well with him. Truthfully, the thought made him sick. 

But he listened to what his clever, beautiful boy brought him, and rewarded him with the largest, brightest jewels, so that he would show off for the other pets, and remind the regent’s men that Berenger was still at court, still has all his money and estates, and had never been open in his allegiances. 

It came as a surprise to him, when he received the request. 

He was getting ready to take Ancel to the arena. His beauty has mastered a new fire dance, and was eager to show off, and Berenger was eager to drink, and feast his eyes on the beautiful bodies presented for his enjoyment, though his gaze always wandered back to the one. 

The door opened while he picked out a length of patterened silk to tie around his throat. A summer chill was going round the palace, and he didn’t fancy being sick. 

“Are you almost ready, pet?” he called over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know, Ancel likes to take his sweet time,” says a high boyish voice that certainly isn’t Ancel’s. 

In his doorway, glittering like a jeweled doll is the Regent’s boy. His small hands are heavy with rings, his slender arms encased in thick gold bangles. 

“I’m here with a message from the prince,” the boy says, his eyes darting around the room quickly. Beyond his quick tongue and sharp wit, he is still a mere child. An owned child. 

Berenger cocks his eyebrow. “Yes?” he says patiently. 

“Prince Laurent … wishes you and Ancel to accompany him to Ios… for his wedding. As part of his entourage.” 

Berenger nods thoughtfully to himself. Leaving with Laurent would show his hand too broadly. Not leaving with Laurent would reveal him as a coward. He did not like to think of himself as a cowardly man. 

“Let the prince know I will begin preparing my household for a move.”

Nicaise exhales deeply, and for a moment, his blue eyes are impossibly wide and vulnerable. “Ancel told me you were very good,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Please, please be as good as Ancel said.” 

There is real fear in his voice, and Berenger almost feels like a monster, because all he can think of is that Ancel had spoken about him, had praised him, and now – well. Now he has to become worthy of that praise, and he isn’t certain that he can. But he wants to, god, how he wants to be. 

Like a sigh, the Regent’s pet is gone. At the Arena, he sticks close to his master, his face a beautiful and impassive mask as he eats chocolates out of the regent’s hand and licks his fingers salaciously while the court averts their eyes. 

Ancel is beautiful. Berenger shoves him into the bed almost as soon as the door to their rooms closes behind him. 

“I didn’t think you had it in you to be so rough,” Ancel says, after, stretching beside him like a pleased cat. Berenger shrugs. 

“How do you feel about the heat?” he asks instead, and his pet raises a suspicious red eyebrow. 

“Prince Laurent wants me to join him as part of his court in Ios. And I would like you to come with me.” 

Ancel shrugs. “You own my contract. Of course I’ll come with you.” 

“I wouldn’t make you, if you truly didn’t want to. I’d release you from your contract, say a few words about you to the master of coin… But I do… want you with me.” 

Ancel closes his eyes, his coppery lashes fluttering against his porcelain pale cheeks. “I’ll come,” he repeats. “Somoene has to look out for you.” 

There’s nothing Berenger can say to that. It’s two weeks after that the Regent announces his nephew will depart Arles, and take the precarious trip to Akielos, where he will be wed to Prince Kastor, and spend the time until his majority. 

It is only fair, the Regent says, that my nephew spend time learning and understanding the culture of his husband, when in a few short years, he will be plucking him away from that land to take his rightful seat at the throne.

It will also be easier, Berenger thinks, to have an unruly Veretian prince assassinated in Akielos. He tightens his arm around Ancel’s waist while Laurent lists the surprisingly small wedding party leaving with him. He has a larger contigent of his guard coming than he does nobles, though perhaps it isn’t that surprising. 

A lot of them have taken to wearing his uncle’s colors this season, but Ancel’s collar is a blue velvet ribbon, holding the largest diamond Berenger could find in his collection. 

JORD 

Jord is loyal to his prince. He likes to think that he’s merely doing what any man with honor would do, but he isn’t nearly naïve enough to fully believe it. It is because of this loyalty, that he keeps his tongue firmly behind his teeth when he is told to start preparing for the trip to Akielos. 

He and Orlant exchange a look, a knowledge – their prince has entered a dangerous game. To what extent he has chosen it, and to what extent it is the Regent’s doing – well. Jord knows that as far as anyone else is concerned, he must keep to his word, keep his head down and obey orders. He wishes Govart would slip down the palace stairs and befall a tragic accident. It is childish, but it’s true. 

The new captain of Laurent’s guard is in the Regent’s pocket, and there’s a brutality in him which, combined with his preference for women, makes him thoroughly unfit to lead the guards which will accompany their prince to the barbarian’s bed. 

Yet when he enters Laurent’s rooms to inform him of the Regent’s orders, he finds his prince calm at his writing desk, his face peaceful and serene. 

“I expected as much,” Laurent says, and his voice is soft, and barely carries. He sighs, and rolls his shoulders, having clearly been writing for a while. Jord eyes the slim strip of his pale wrist, displayed by his unlaced sleeves hungrily. “It will not do,” he murmurs, more to himself, and Jord wonders, not for the first time, which part of his prince is the most dangerous – his beautiful face, or the terrifying mind he hides. 

“Well,” Laurent says louder, squaring up. “If this is how my uncle has willed it, then this is how it will happen. You understand, don’t you? Report to Govart. Don’t give him a reason to have you or any of my men sent away.” 

His eyes are still as a lake. Jord wonders if other men too, look into those ice-cast depths and see their own death there. He doesn’t love Laurent, doesn’t even particularly like him, most days, but he would lay his life down for him, because that is what his vows mean. 

“As you wish, your Grace,” he says, bows and leaves. 

“Jord,” Laurent calls when he is almost outside the door. 

“Your grace?” 

Laurent regards him for a long time, carefully, his head tilted to the side. 

“Aimeric wrote to me,” he says finally. His words are vague and cryptic, but Jord’s heart is in his throat, as he thinks about the beautiful boy, with his soft mouth, and soft hands, and soft hair, the little aristocrat, with all the arrogance of money and youth. 

Jord liked him best on his back, stuffed full of cock and moaning like a two-coppers whore, but he’d grown to like him too, still in sleep, and warm beside him, and also smiling in the mornings, and cocky on the saddle. 

The prince knows, as he has made knowing his particular talent, and his face still betrays nothing, when he says “He is well, and I know he will be glad to see you again.” 

Jord can’t restrain the smile at the thought. If Laurent says it, it must have been in aimeric’s letter to him, and he can’t help it, the thought makes him happy. The idea of Aimeric’s petty delicate hand, clasping his gold-tipped pen to press into the thick expensive paper he uses, and write in his particular swirly way Jord’s name, and indicate he misses him, he longs forhim the same way Jord does – it does something, in his throat, to think it. 

He is a simple man, and a simple soldier. He exchanged no promises with the boy, and all the same, hasn’t taken another lover since Aimeric was sent to Ios, to spy on his father, and on the Akielon court. He is unused to beautiful things still, despite his time in the palace, and yet Aimeric is sweet on him, wants him, despite how old Jord is, and despite the fact that a boy with his beauty and youth could surely charm anyone. 

Nothing will come of it. Even if Laurent rewards his loyalty handsomely, even if one day he can say he is favored by the king of Vere, at the end of the day, he is still a mere foot soldier, and Aimeric is the son of one of the Regent’s trusted advisors. He vows not to think of it, it is still lovely and nice to be close to him, to have him nearby, to touch, to hold. As long as his boy will allow it, and then jord will put him out of his mind. 

“Thank you, your grace,” Jord says, but Laurent is looking down at his papers again, and Jord takes the dismissal for what it is. He is pleased still, when he goes to talk to Orlant, and when he drinks with them in the evening, and he is pleased even in Govart’s ugly self-satisfied face barking orders for their preparation. 

Govart can tell his usual attempts at riling are unsuccesfull, and if anything, that leaves him more ruffled. It’s hardly Jord’s fault that he has an ugly mug, and no pet would want to sign a contract away to him, and even less so that even the few women that might accept him without marriage wouldn’t do so if only for his temper. 

It’s also not Jord’s fault that the Regent has chosen him to spy on his nephew. It doesn’t take a political education to know this is Govart’s place in the guard. Jord has disposed of a fair number of would-be assassins in his time working for Laurent to know full well what a disloyal captain of the guard can do to a prince’s security in a foreign land that hates him. 

As Jord said, it will not do, but what to do is something different entirely. He leaves those thoughts. Laurent has a plan. He trusts in that, as much as he trusts in laurent’a ability to take the crown, in Laurent’s promise that their loyalty is not in vain and will be rewarded, ne trusts that, because he has to, and because his vow bids him to, but he also likes ot think he trusts it, because it’s the right thing to do. 

He likes to think, if he had sworn a vow to the Regent, he would not follow is blindly, as he does not follow laurent blindly. But his golden prince is easy to love, when he looks so much like his brilliant brother, and his smiles, rare, and brief, remind Jord that this man will make a kind and fair king. 

He thinks of the kindness in Laurent, telling him of Aimeric’s letter, and thinks of this prince, cold and powerful in his tower, signing his life away to a barbarian monster for the good of the kingdom. Is Delpha worth Laurent’s body? How much is a prince worth? 

They’d joked about it once, him and Orlant – that if they could, they’d bend their cold cast-iron prince over, show him a good time, make him feel loose and warm and soft, treat him like they’d treat a lover, and who knows, maybe the prince would like them a little rougher too. It was drunk talk, and Orlant asked “How much do you reckon a princeling costs?” and now Jord knows, a princeling costs a province and some gold, which to the Veretian coffers is pocket change. A princeling costs his Uncle’s iron grip on a throne, that Jord, loyal as he is, determined as he is to not concern himself with the goings of the court beyond Laurent’s safety, can see the Regent has no plans on relinquishing regardless of wether Laurent reaches his majority. 

It’s an ugly thought, but it’s true nonetheless, and there’s a reason he prefers being a simple soldier to a noble. He goes to sleep thinking of Aimeric in the sun-kissed fields of Akielos, his cheeks bright as apricots under the summer sun. 

GOVART

Govart has been made captain of the bitch prince’s guard to help keep him in line on his way to Akielos, to ensure he doesn’t embarrass himself or his uncle, and most importantly, to ensure that disaster befalls him before he even gets to the barbarian’s death. Surely, the Veretian crown prince being kidnapped, raped and brutally killed by a band of Akielon barbarians will be reason enough for the Regent to go to war again, to rally the troops, and most importantly, to not relinquish the throne. 

Whores do not belong on the helm of a country, and the pretty princeling, hiding behind his high collars, and fur-lined cape is nothing more than a needy little whore. Govart’s heard enough to know it. 

He’s in a sour mood, knowing that Jord, and Orlant, and their whole band of disloyals see him, and do not respect him, and do not take his authority over them seriously, as though he has less merit than them to be captain, when he’s been a soldier just the same. 

He’s sour as well, because the tavern boy that asked for a gold piece from him went to bed with Orlant’s ugly mug for a silver piece. He makes his way back to his quarters, and thinks of drowning the sourness in a goblet of wine, when his eyes catch the sliver of white. 

Like a ghost, Nicaise stands in the middle of the hallway in an overly large white shirt that surely belongs to his master, and his eyes are wide and bottomless, the blue appearing a dark sapphire in the low light. Govart had almost startled. He must have been paying too much attention to the kitchen maids’ talks of ghosts. 

“What are you doing out of bed so late?” Govart asked. 

The regent didn’t like to strike Nicaise, but he also didn’t like the idea of anyone else striking Nicaise. The boy was too clever for his own good, Govart often thought, and too uppity for what he was – a passing distraction to the King of Vere. His mouth had better uses than to talk anyway, not that he’d know. The Regent had implied, once Nicaise’s contract expired, Govart would be free to have his turn with him. 

Nicaise tilted his head to the side, studying him carefully. The pretty diamond studs in his ears caught in the flicker of the torches lining the walls. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, and his voice is so soft, it barely carries. Govart thinks with no small amount of satisfaction that his throat must be rough. “Paschal gives me poppy milk sometimes,” and then adds, anxiously, his eyes darting around the halls. “That’s okay, right?” 

In many aspects, Govart forgets the little slut is still just a kid. “Yeah,” he says gruffly, “That’s okay.” 

He’s not about to chastise the regent’s whore for going to the physician. He’d often accompanied him on the trips to Paschal’s infirmary in his first few months at court. Boy bruised as easy as a peach. And from the sound of it, he was as sweet as one too. 

“You could walk with me,” Nicaise says, “Like the old times.” 

He is serious and unsmiling. It’s the most disturbing thing about him – how rare he smiles, when other pets fall over themselves to be charming and laughing. 

“I heard you got promoted,” he adds, taking a few steps towards Govart. He’s barefoot, and his pale soles make no noise on the stone floors. “Captain of the Prince’s Guard,” he adds, to indicate which promotion he means. 

“Yes, yes,” Govart huffs. The way the other men had acted sucked all the joy out of it for him, and even the knowledge he’d do away with the princeling’s disrespect for good didn’t do much to assuage him. 

“Well, congratulations,” Nicaise says sincerely, and then, finally, smiles slow and sly. “Would the captain of the prince’s guard want a romp with the Regent’s pet?” 

Govart is sure in that moment he stops breathing. Nicaise laughs, soft and free, and shakes his head, his auburn curls falling into his eyes. 

“Not now, of course,” he clarifies. “But later. You know. Laurent only wants my contract, because it makes his Uncle angry to have to give me away. I know he promised me to you.” 

Govart feels less angry at those words. Of course. Of course Nicaise knows, after all, he’d been always loyal to the Regent. A good obedient little whore. His master must have asked him if he had a particular preference who he’d go to after his contract expired. 

“I’ll walk with you,” he says gruffly, and Nicaise rewards him with another sweet little smile. Govart wants that pretty full mouth on his cock. And after Laurent is done away with, he will get it. 

The way to Paschal’s infirmary is familiar, and the physician keeps odd hours anyhow, so they walk quickly. Govart has longer legs, and walks faster, but he can hear the soft padding of Nicaise’s bare feet on the stone. 

“You’ll catch chills like that,” he says, but the boy merely shrugs.  
It hadn’t occurred to Govart to be suspicious, really. Nicaise often roamed the halls at night, since he was first brought to the palace, curious and unable to sleep much without Pascha;s aid. He went to the infirmary often for his bruises, and for his poppy milk. Sometimes he went to the Prince’s rooms to fetch him at his Uncle’s behest. Sometimes he went to the kitchens, where a sympathetic maid would always let him have at the cakes that were left over from the dinners. He’d ran into Govart plenty of times on his nightly excursions, and it’s not like Govart cared what the whore did. He’s at the top of the stairs, readying to take the first step down towards the second floor hallway where Paschal can be found with his headache aids and hangover cures, and he feels the small childish hand settle firmly on his back. He opens his mouth, and the bawdy joke freezes on his lips when he feels the push come. 

Nicaise is not terribly strong, and Govart is a heavy man, but he had already raised his foot, and he tumbles off balance. He grapples for the rail with a cry in his throat. Nicaise, light as the dawn follows after his trajectory down the stairs, carefully avoiding where there’s blood from Govart’s scraped and broken nose. He’s smashed his head on the bottom stairs, and his eyes are wide when they fixate on the pretty boy. 

“The Regent and Laurent both told you to drink less,” Nicaise says seriously, as he bends down to look at him curiously. “Silly Govart. You were so happy for your promotion you drank too much and fell down the stairs.”

His smile this time is nasty and wide, baring teeth. His small hand settles on Govart’s cheek. 

“You – “ he gurgles, blood filling his mouth. A fall like this wouldn’t kill him, Paschal is right there, if he could only call for help – 

Nicaise grasps the sides of his neck. For a moment Govart has the irrational thought the boy will kiss him. Instead, Nicaise twists. 

He straightens up, and runs his hands down the front of the shirt to smooth it over. There’s no blood on him, and he’s left no prints of his hands or feet in the blood already spilled. He carefully walks around Govart’s body and hops over to Paschal’s rooms. In the shadows of the corridor, it’s hard to see, especially coming from up the stairs, but Pashcal’s been standing in the open doorway for a while now. 

“I didn’t need your help,” says Nicaise haughtily. 

“I know,” says Paschal sincerely. “But I wanted you to be safe anyhow.” 

He ushers Nicaise in, and lets him sit at his desk, pressing a glass of warm milk to his hands. 

“It has a little poppy in it,” he says, “to steady you.” 

“I don’t need to be steadied,” Nicaise says, but he takes a drink all the same. He is as calm as he’s ever been. 

“How do you feel?” Paschal asks softly. 

Nicaise shrugs, the shirt slipping of hia bare shoulder, black and blue with bites. 

“No better or worse than I ever do,” he says simply, and it’s true. He doesn’t feel bad for Govart. As far as he is concerned, he got the end that was coming for him. As far as he is concerned, Laurent is keeping his promise – they will all pay. 

“Shall we raise the alarm then?” Paschal asks kindly. Nicaise finishes his milk in a few gulps, his eyes glazing over, and he nods. 

In the middle of the night Jord is awoken by the news that are burning up the palace- the new captain of the prince’s guard got so drunk in celebrating his promotion, he fell and smashed his head at the bottom of the stairs. 

He remembers Laurent’s softly spoken “That won’t do” and wonders what did do. Laurent is appropriately underdressed, as though he’s been woken and rushed out of his rooms, his lovely blonde hair in disarray, his eyes heavy with sleep. 

Nicaise, the regent’s pet is crying big fat tears of shock. “I found him – I’d gone to see Paschal for some poppy milk – it always helps me sleep – and – and we heard the noise, and we went to see what it was – “ 

The regent steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. Nicaise leans into the touch like a cat. Laurent’s eyes take in Govart’s crumpled form, and he looks as near to devastated, as any one royal would on realizing the one guarding his life is not infallible. 

“Govart…” he murmurs, “Just today he swore his oath to me… just today he swore his life to me,” he sighs deeply, and looks through the crowd of half asleep courtiers. He is already mourning. 

“Uncle,” he says, voice quiet, and soft, and his eyes are searching the older man’s face for guidance. 

The Regent’s face is dark. 

“Nephew,” he says, flatly.

“My prince’s guard – “ Laurent begins, steadily. “You have failed me in choosing someone who would protect my life and my safety,” he shakes his head. “I know you only want the best for me. Maybe, it is better that I choose my own guard’s captain. From among my own men, whom I all know well.” 

His eyes lock with Jord’s, and the promise is there, in the haughty lines of his face. 

When they ride out to Akielos as week later, he bears Laurent’s insignia as captain of the Prince’s Guard, and Orlant is looking at him knowingly. But what Jord does, or doesn’t know about his prince is not his to share. 

In the carriage Laurent leans his forehead on the glass, his eyes swallowing up the passing pastorals. 

Nicaise is curled up on the seat beside him in a new velvet cloak, his eyes dancing, and a smile playing on his lips. 

“However will you explain to your new husband that you’ve brought your pet with you, I wonder,” Nicaise says slyly. He is merely teasing, Laurent knows. He tosses a sugar plum at the boy to silence him, even for a moment. 

“You aren’t my pet,” Laurent says sternly. “You’re my attendant. You’ll help me dress and bathe. You’ll read my letters, and write letters for me, in my name. Paschal says that you’re getting along nicely in your reading and writing.” 

Nicaise frowns. “My letters aren’t as pretty as yours,” he admits. 

“Then you’ll only write to the ones I don’t like. Let them try to puzzle it out,” Laurent declares. The farther they get from Arles, the more he feels as though he can breathe. 

It’s a surprise when suddenly, Nicaise uncurls, and throws himself at Laurent, wrapping his arms around his neck tightly, hiding his face in Laurent’s shoulder and his whole body is shaking. 

It takes Laurent a while to finally put his hands around Nicaise’s body and pull him into the hug tigher. When Nicaise finally pulls away, his eyes are dry and honest. 

“I’m not going to learn the Akielon alphabet” he warns. 

Laurent laughs, and reaches out to tuck his hair behind his ear. Nicaise is wearing beautiful silver earrings that dangle to his collarbone, the metal hammered into the shape of flying birds. 

“You can write Akielon in Veretian script,” Laurent says, “I’ll show you.” 

It’s lazy and informal. His tutor had hated when he did it, but Auguste made his notes on Laurent’s work like that, so he’d grasp it more easily.

Auguste… 

He is not so overwhelmed with his freedom that he has forgotten why he is doing this. In a week he will have to bed the man who should have been dead in Auguste’s place. Kastor, brother of Damianos prince-killer, a barbarian bastard who wrote sweet letters filled with nothing. And soon after that, he would have the Akielon court wrapped around his little finger. And soon after that, he would return to Vere and remove his uncle once and for all from his life. Auguste would have been proud. He likes to think, Auguste would have been proud. 

Nicaise settles his hand in Laurent’s but doesn’t speak anymore. It takes Laurent a while to realize he’s fallen asleep, and watching the peaceful rise and fall of his small back is grounding in its own way. He goes back to watching the scenery out of the carriage window, and thinking of Akielos, and the man he would have to marry and his brother, that he will have to kill. 

NICAISE

All Akielons look the same, is Nicaise’s first thought. They ride through Delpha, to be welcomed by the kyros, as he formally hands over his land to Laurent, with Laurent’s new fiancée there. It will be the first time they meet in person. 

The Akielon kingsguard meets them on the way. They are all sun-bronzed and square jawed, broad in the shoulders, and Nicaise thinks, not wholly displeasing to the eye. The kingsguard is made of nobles, and all these men have lands, and titles and names. They may be second or third sons, but Nicaise isn’t choosy. He’ll have any of them, if it keeps him in comfort. If Laurent fails. If it means he won’t have to go back. 

Laurent is looking out the carriage window too, but his face is frustratingly unreadable. Maybe he is thinking about his betrothed. Maybe he is pleased about all the land that he is about to own, and the cattle, and Veretians which will once again see him as their long-suffering golden prince, and the sacrifices he makes for the peace of their land. Maybe he’s not thinking at all. 

Nicaise has no way of knowing these things. He clenches his fists. A golden prince like Laurent is easy to love. But Laurent hadn’t protected him. He hadn’t even protected himself. 

As if sensing his thoughts, he slants a piercing blue gaze at Nicaise, slender platinum brows arching. “Am I last meal, that you’re looking at me with such hunger?” he asks in accented Akielon. 

Nicaise recognizes “meal” and “hunger” and peaces the meaning together. He sticks his tongue out and rolls his eyes. Laurent can piece the meaning of that. He’s not in the mood for a language lesson. 

“Are you scared?” Laurent asks. 

Nicaise huffs. “Are you?” he fires back. 

Laurent gets that pensieve look on his face again. He goes quiet for so long, Nicaise thinks he might not answer. When he finally says “Yes,” it’s almost a whisper. Nicaise tries to convince himself he’s imagined it. If Laurent is afraid, what hope does he have? 

LAURENT

The King-Regent Damianos has brought his court to Delpha to witness the engagement of his bastard brother, and strip the kyros of his land. 

Laurent knows this, rationally, in his brain. Aimeric has written of it to warn him. Damianos will be there. Prepare yourself. 

He knows the wolf. He has seen the wolf, in his nightmares, year after tenderly violated year. Here is the man who brought Auguste down. Here is the man whose sword went through his brother. Here, the reaper, with his golden scythe. 

His own older brother is alive and untarnished. His own older brother gets to marry. Gets to marry Laurent. 

The kyros of Delpha, Nikandros, is the king’s closest friend and confidante. Occasional lover, if palace rumors are to be believed, but the prudish Akielons rarely speak freely of such things. He is stern-faced, and Laurent cannot discern if that’s because he is about to become a lord with no land, or because it is his general disposition. 

The carriage halts at the gates of his breautiful white home. After the Akielon brutes razed the palaces of the Veretian governor, they have rebuilt, in their own style. Marble columns rising to a curved roof, statues of beautiful women carrying wine-carrafes holding up the ceiling. It’s not terrible to look at. 

Jord opens the carriage door and pulls the steps out. Nicaise hops out first, and then waits patiently to offer Nicaise his hand like a good attendant. Laurent stands firm. One one side is his own modest wedding party. Berenger and his fire-dancing pet, Vannes with her conniving red mouth, the head of the merchants’ guild, Charls, whose family has always supported Laurent’s claim to the throne, two of Aimeric’s lying, treacherous brothers, Paschal, for emergencies, and his commoner soldiers. It is pitiful. Sad. 

The cast-iron prince of Vere, standing there, he has never felt more alone, more unloved. He grits his teeth. Casts his eye forward. He smiles. 

On his other side is the Akielon court. He doesn’t recognize them by name. When he tries to look at them out the corner of his eye, all he sees is the green grass at Marlas, awash with blood. 

Straight ahead of him is Kastor, his future husband. In person he is more handsome than his portrait. His nose is crooked to the side, and there is a dimple in his right cheek, but not in his left, as he smiles expectantly. It makes him look charming in a way his stern-faced picture hadn’t. 

To his left is Damianos. Laurent knows this, so he looks to his right, at the stern face of the kyros, and walks forward, back straight. 

Kastor bows to him. Curt, military-like. Laurent mimicks the action. He does not intend to subdue his husband yet. 

“Beloved.” Kastor says in Veretian. His accent is thick, but not unintelligible. His voice is deep and rumbles. 

“I have waited long to see you,” Laurent says in Akielon. He knows his own accent is barely noticeable. 

Damianos smiles, and Laurent catches it at the corner of his eye. Had he been smiling that day? Laurent doesn’t remember. 

“Prince Laurent,” he says. He has a gentle voice. A kind voice. Laurent must not forget that man is a monster. 

“Exalted.” Laurent returns the acknowledgment. The Regent-King inclines his head. 

“We are pleased you have arrived,” he says, and Laurent isn’t sure if he’s using the royal “we”, or indicating the whole group. 

Kyros Nikandros certainly doesn’t seem happy to see him. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says, and could not possibly sound more sour about it, without causing offence. Laurent takes none. 

“I feel welcome,” he drawls pointedly. The kyros bristles. Damianos laughs, as though he is just so damn pleased to be here. 

“You must be very tired,” he says. “Perhaps you and your party would like to rest before we feast?” 

They have been on the road for days. 

“That would be excellent.” 

Kastor is still smiling a slight smile. It occurs to Laurent that it might be his neutral expression. He tilts his head to the side. 

“May we be shown to our quarters?” he asks. He mostly means himself, though of course, his pathetically small court need their rest too. 

Nikandros claps his hands, and as soft and sudden as air, a few dozen slaves emerge from somewhere behind the pillars. 

“You will be taken care of here, most excellently,” Nikandros says. “Allow me to present you a small … wedding gift.” 

One of the slaves has hung back, standing by his master. He is lovely – anyone with eyes would certainly agree. 

“Isander has been trained for me,” Nikandros says. “But I wish for you to have it. He has not been touched before, and he will take joy in serving you.” 

The slave drops into a bow to the ground, and his beautiful supple mouth touches the nose of Laurent’s boot. He seems enraptured by the mere action, by being allowed to do it. 

“You are very generous,” Laurent says, and means it. Akielon slaves are rare and precious gifts. Prince Torveld had lamented wanting to get Akielon trainers into Patras for his own harem, and Laurent remembered the thought well. “Does he speak Veretian?” 

He had thought briefly of Torveld, when the time to make his decision came. But Akielos… well. Simply put, Akielos would be much easier to conquer. 

“Rise, Isander,” Laurent commanded, and the slave did so with beautiful fluid grace. 

“Show his grace to his quarters,” Nikandros ordered. Isander looked to Laurent for confirmation, and Laurent appreciated him all the more for it. He nodded. 

Behind him, only Orlant and Jord remained, ready to follow him and guard at his door. 

Isander led them through the hallways of the lovely home and into the rooms prepared for Laurent’s use. 

“Draw me a bath,” Laurent ordered, tossing his travelling cloak on the setee, and sprawling himself on the cushions. Even in carriage, travel exhausted him beyond reason. 

“Nicaise,” he called. “Find Aimeric and let him know that I wish to speak to him.” 

He could see the grit of Nicaise’s teeth before he nodded. “Yes, Laurent.” 

KASTOR

“He’s certainly pretty,” Damen says, and claps him on the shoulder warmly. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks crease with dimples when he smiles, encouraging, and so goddamn well-meaning. 

“Yes,” Kastor says vaguely. “Don’t go stealing him now, because he’s blonde.” 

It has the desired effect of making Damen laugh, full-throated, head-thrown back. Damen needs to laugh. He bows under the weight of their father’s sickness. 

Laurent of Vere is pretty, indeed. He looks even more striking in person than in his picture, pale, and fine-boned, with his blue eyes framed by thick long lashes, and his long golden hair the color of wheat. 

Kastor thinks, he can rather put up with a husband that is this pretty to look at. 

“Please rise for His Royal Higness, Prince Laurent of Vere,” the footman at the door announces. 

Laurent waves them all to sit, standing in the door alone, and lovely. He walks towards the high table, and takes the seat on Kastor’s right, which has been left for him. 

“You look lovely, fiancée,” Kastor murmurs in Veretian. 

Laurent slants a cool look at him. “Thank you.” His voice is drier than the earth in summer. 

“Shall we toast? To the health of my new brother in law,” Damen says. 

Laurent inclinces his head. His eyes flash something cruel. He raises his goblet, a thin smile curling his mouth. “You are kind, Prince Damianos.” 

“I hope you will feel welcome in our land, and in our family,” Damen says easily. 

“I certainly will,” Laurent’s voice makes it sounds like a promise, like a threat. Kastor wonders what’s going on behind his pretty face. 

Laurent picks at his dinner, and eats in small, bird-like bites. After the first sip of wine, he tops his goblet with water. 

“I had hoped I may have a chance to speak with you alone, betrothed,” Kastor says. 

“Oh?” Laurent’s perfect golden eyebrow arches. Interest is in the lines of his face. “Would you.” Kastor always liked a challenge. 

“Yes.” 

Laurent shrugs. “Would that be proper, before our wedding? I must confess, I am not wholly familiar with your marriage customs.” 

“It would be improper, if either one of us were a woman,” Kastor acknowledges. “Like in Vere, I imagine.” 

Laurent nods. 

“I still wish to speak to you,” Kastor stresses. “If you don’t want us to be alone,” he shrugs. “Take that pretty spy of yours.” 

“Aimeric?” Laurent’s voice is laced with amusement. “I trust he’s not made too much of a nuisance of himself.” 

“Only as far as ensuring half my guard is too besotted with him to do their proper jobs when he’s in the vicinity,” Kastor says primly. It had been rather amusing, at first, to watch seasoned soldiers drop goblets of griva and walk into pillars when they caught the whiff of Veretian perfume and saw the ambassador’s pretty son lounging with a book in the gardens. 

Laurent’s mouth curls. This smile is not tinged with cruelty. He bows his head, almost as though he’s trying to hide it. 

“Yes, he rather has the talent for it. My guard was much the same when he first entered the ranks,” his voice is light, lilting. Kastor quite enjoys the sound. Yes, he can put up with this man in his bed, indeed. 

“I’m curious,” Kastor says. 

Laurent silences him with a glance, with a touch, delicate pale hand resting on Kastor’s knuckles. 

“We’ll talk,” he aquiesces. “Take me for a turn in the gardens.” 

Kastor does not obey orders. Had never before obeyed orders, unless they came from his king. And even then, he usually interpreted them loosely, in any way that suited him best. 

But Laurent does not seem like someone who would welcome disobedience. No, indeed, Kastor cannot imagine this glacial image of perfection has ever been told “no” in his life. 

“Very well,” Kastor says. “It would be my pleasure to walk with you, fiancée.” 

Laurent rewards him with a demure smile, looking subtly pleased with himself. It’s not a terrible expression on him. Kastor wonders if this is what he will look like at his coronation. 

Damen is all too happy on his other side, offering him an encouraging smile, raising his goblet again, there’s a question in his face, Are you satisfied? 

Kastor isn’t sure, and his own look conveys it, perhaps too keenly. Maybe. 

After the meal has been served, and the slaves have cleared away the plates, Damianos’ prize slave takes out a lyre, and starts a song. Isander, Laurent’s pretty gift, dances to the music, throwing coy glances at his new master under his long lashes. 

Laurent leans back in his chair, and watches cooly unaffected. When the performance ends, he nods his head once in silent approval, and Isander’s cheeks redden sweetly. 

Laurent rises. Kastor rises with him. 

Damen winks at his brother, his eyes raking over Laurent’s slender frame. It’s lewd, is what it is, and Kastor does not appreciate the implications. Laurent remains unaffected, and allows himself to be lead out into the gardens. The night air is crisp and warm, smelling sweetly of fresh grass. Laurent seems content to follow Kastor, his eyes moving over the sculptures in the garden. 

“You wanted to speak with me?” He says finally. The songs of the cicadas make a fine accompaniment to his voice. Maybe in a different life, he had been a woodland fae, like his mother’s stories. 

“Yes,” Kastor says. He leands on the marble rail of Nikandros’ pond, and turns to face Laurent. 

He is even more ethereal looking, with only the stars, and the crescent moon to illuminate his ivory skin and fine platinum hair, his lips like delicately pink seashells. 

“I want to know exactly what I’m getting myself into, here,” Kastor says quietly. 

“You’re getting into bed with me. Or is that not enough?” Laurent asks. 

“Don’t be crass,” Kastor chides. “You’re very beautiful,” he adds, sincerely. “But you must know that isn’t enough. Beautiful faces are a dime a dozen. What are you planning, little prince?” 

“I plan to rule,” Laurent says, coldly. There is something to it, Kastor thinks, to all the rumors. In that moment, he may truly be made of stone. 

“Fairly?” Kastor asks. In his pale blue finery, washed into grey from the darkness, his princeling fiancée looks like one of the sculptures. 

“Absolutely,” Laurent corrects. “I plan to rule absolutely.” 

“And what do you need me for, then?” 

“You plotted with my uncle, did you not?” 

“Yes,” Kastor says. He keeps the shame out of his face, but not of his voice. “Against my brother. Not against you.” 

Laurent’s laugh is a cruel thing, a mocking thing. “You must have known what he was planning to do to me. The same thing you were planning for your own father.” 

“Don’t – “ 

“Why should I tell you my plans and my intentions?” Laurent interrupts. “Why should you have any knowledge of my thoughts, when at the core of it, you are a liar and a betrayer? I will do what I please, and you will keep silence, and support me, else your head is forfeit. You get to fuck me, and keep your slaves, and have a crown on your head on top. I am not offering an entirely unfair deal here.”  
“You aren’t,” Kastor agrees. He wants to bend the princeling over the rail, and shove his pretty head under the water. Curb some of that horrendous attitude. That this blatant viciousness is also making him unbearably hard under his chiton is of little consequence. 

Laurent seems surprised at such easy aquiescence. He is not used to the Akielon ways, Kastor things, of speaking one’s mind. All Veretians are snakes. 

“But if you fail, in whatever you are planning, my head is forfeit all the same. I have a stake in your success now.” 

Laurent smiles thinly at him. “You know to become King Consort of Vere, you must fist give up any Akielon titles you hold?” he asks, as though it’s just occurred to him. 

Kastor grits his teeth. “I know.” 

Laurent nods. 

“First, you give your Akielon title. Then, I give you Veretian titles. Then we marry. Then you become Prince-Consort. Then I ascend the throne. Then I become kind, and you become King-Consort.” 

“Very straightforward,” Kastor says. Laurent isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at the black waters of the pond, and his light eyes reflect it. 

Kastor follows his gaze. 

“Isn’t it just,” Laurent murmurs wistfully. 

“Your uncle has no intention of making it straight forward for you,” Kastor says. It’s not a guess. From the first letter Aimeric delivered into his rooms, it had been quite obvious. 

Something was rotten in Arles. And the Veretian royal family was going to have it all out over Kastor’s head. 

“My uncle likes games,” Laurent says quietly. “He taught me many. Now I’m stealing his pawns.” 

“I am not a – “ Kastor begins to protest. Laurent is still not looking at him, but rather at his hands, laced over the railing. He’s wearing his signet ring, and little else, though the rest of his court is finely decked in jewels and gold. 

“I mean to end the Regent’s reign, one way or another,” Laurent says quietly. “And if you want the Akielon crown… Well. It’s not presently a priority of mine. But – “ 

Understanding downs on Kastor. “You mean to see your uncle’s plots for Akielos through.” 

Laurent finally turns to face him. “I mean to rule. Absolutely. Are you with me, or against me, fiancée?” 

It’s not much of a choice, not really. What he’d planned to do with the Regent – that had never seemed real. It was going to happen, but it had been easy to look the other way, when the letters were constant, the reassurances easy. 

Laurent made no promises. Laurent told him exactly how it would be. And that, Kastor believed much easier. 

“You want revenge,” he said, mostly to answer a question for himself. On Damen, for Auguste. On the Regent, for daring to act like his placement on the throne was more than a temporary inconvenience, on Akielos, for winning the war – 

Laurent had turned his eyes back to his clasped hands, twirling the ring absently around his finger. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes were silver, and his lips were poison. 

He took a step closer to Kastor, so they were chest to chest. He smelled of fine, fruity bath oils, and he had to look up to meet Kastor’s eyes. 

He slid the ring off his finger. “Don’t you?” 

Kastor was dazed with the closeness of him. He carried himself like a man much bigger than his size, and only now, at this proximity did Kastor realize his smallness. He could probably encircle his waist with both hands. It was making him heady. 

Then suddenly, Laurent stepped away, and with a practiced move tossed the ring into the water, turning swiftly around. 

“Let’s go back before we are missed.” 

Kastor could do little but follow this dangerous creature that had somehow worked its way under his skin. 

“Your ring,” he began, uncertainly. 

“You will get me many more rings,” Laurent said, “When I proclaim you governor of Delpha.” 

He picks up his pace, and leaves Kastor standing alone in the middle of the forking path. 

In front of the Kingsmeet, Damen is solemn, for once, and his face is impassive. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, and something creeps into his voice, the same childish uncertainty that he’d always turned to Kastor with, begging him to quench his fears, to reassure him, as the elder one. 

No, Kastor thinks. “Yes,” he says, resolutely. 

The statues of their predecessors look down on him, the bastard, who had never been enough. He would have been king. His statue would have been here. He had dreamed of it, in childhood, when Theomedes took him by the hand, and led him through. 

“One day, when I am dead, and you are King, this is where you will come,” Theomdes had always said. “And you will speak to me. And I will advise you. You will always know how to do what is right.” 

“I don’t want you to die, Father,” Kastor remembers clutching his hand, more desperately than he’d thought possible. 

“It’s a long way yet,” his father had responded. 

It was not such a long way now. He faced Damen, and he felt no fear, and no doubt. He couldn’t. Maybe Theomedes’ promise was right, and he knew how to do this. 

He just didn’t know if he could. 

Please, he thought, let me be enough.

He kneeled in front of Damen. On his sides, the kyroi had fanned out. 

“Prince Kastor of Akielos. Born of King Theomedes of Akielos, and the slave Hypermenestra, first son of the royal house of Akielos, holder of the title prince-commander of the Ios platoon, guardian-kyros of the Kesus province, and protector of the Island of Isthima,” Damen lists. “Do you, of your own free will, here, before our ancestors, refuse your claim to the titles, territories and holdings of a royal member of the house of Akielos?” 

Kastor looks at Damen’s feet. He could still say no, and walk away from this. He could still poison his father, have Jokaste smother Damen with a pillow in his bed, and sit at the throne. He can still do all of that, or he can do none of it, but simply say no, walk away. He got cold feet. The Veretian bitch is too frigid and scared him off. 

He looks up. Damen’s eyes are not smiling. “I do.” 

“Do you renounce your rights as citizen of Akielos, to instead undertake those of a citizen of Vere, for yourself, and all children beget by your direct line?” 

“I do.” 

“Do you also renounce your - “ Damen’s voice catches. “Do you also renounce your claim to Akielon throne, such as in the event of the deaths of King Theomedes of Akielos, and … myself, Pri – King-Regent Damianos, even on the occasion that no heirs of our direct line can take up the throne?”

Kastor caught Damen’s slip. They all must have. He still thinks of himself as merely a prince. No wonder he’s always been the first choice for the damned crown. He deserves it. 

“Yes,” Kastor whispers. Clears his throat. “Yes,” he repeats louder. 

“Do you renounce the claim to the Akielon throne of all and any heirs of your direct line?” Damen continues. 

It’s a moot point. It’s not as though his marriage to Laurent will produce offspring, not with how prudish the Veretians are about bastards. 

“Yes,” he says. A part of him had thought, maybe, if Damen never had children, Kastor could… sire an offspring. Rule Akielos, through a trueborn daughter or son. 

That too, had been but a dream. 

“Kastor,” Damen says. His voice is simply kingly, imbued every bit with that same power and poise Theomedes had taught to his children. “Rise now, as a man with no country, but the country of your chosen one, with no titles, and no military rank in our land. Rise, not as the first son of the royal house of Akielos, not as my subject…” 

Damen’s voice breaks again. Kastor will never forgive him if he cries. He may have to sock him for it. Going all soft on him, when the decision had been made already. 

He rises, when he feels that Damen can’t continue. 

“You will always be my brother,” Damen says, so damn earnest that Kastor wants to throttle him. “I hope you are happy.” 

“I will be,” Kastor says. He makes his voice hard, certain. 

Damen smiles, but it’s a poor showing. 

Beside him, Nikandros is stoic and scowling. Makedon mouths something lewd about Laurent’s ass. 

Kastor straightens his shoulders, and looks through the ancestors he can no longer claim. 

“Now, shall we ride back into Ios, for the most magnificent wedding celebration that the city – and country – has ever seen?” Damen asks warmly, and puts an arm over his shoulders. 

“There will be griva, and slaves, and fire dancing,” Makedon adds, “We’ll show your princeling what a celebration looks like.” 

His princeling is waiting calmly with the horses, and the rest of his Veretian entourage, speaking something quietly to his boy-faced attendant. 

“I am yours for the taking,” Kastor announces. Behind him Makedon snickers at the implication. But it’s true in more ways than one - Kastor is lower in rank than Laurent. 

“How lovely,” Laurent says, flatly. “I’m tired of the carriage. I want to ride the rest of the way to Ios. Will you join me?” 

“Are you certain you’re up for it?” Kastor asks, eyeing his slender physique meaningfully. By all reports, prince Laurent was a bookish indoors flower. 

Laurent inclines his head to the side. “Would you like to race me and find out?” 

A few kyroi whoop at the challenge. The Akielon courtier with the mean look – Vannes – chuckles haughtily behind her fan. 

Laurent gets on the saddle in a smooth move, and hands his fur-lined cape to the boy-attendant. Kastor ought to introduce him to the fashions appropriate for the weather of Ios. Although all this tight velvet, and lacing and leather is very delectable looking in its own way. 

“Very well, let’s race,” he says. “What will you give me, when I win?” 

Damen laughs at his confidence, but he knows Kastor is the best rider, out of all of them. 

“I would… let you lead our first dance,” Laurent says, thoughtfully. “I’ll let you choose the music too. What will you give me?” 

Kastor smiles, because he has been preparing for this, when he says, “You already have my heart, my prince. What else would you have me give?” 

It has the desired effect of startling Laurent, as his eyes widen. This time Vannes laughs outfight. For some reason the boy looks smug. 

“I’ll think on it on the ride,” Laurent promises. “And by the time you catch up to me, I’ll let you know.” 

Kastor mounts his own horse. “Overconfidence is unattractive in a ruler.” 

“Smug conduct is unbecoming to a peasant.” Laurent counters. 

“Nicaise, count us off.” 

Nicaise! That’s the boy’s name. He pulls a blue handkerchief out. 

“When it touches the ground, you start,” he says. His voice is high, boyish still, and it makes his thickly accented Akielon sound charming. 

He drops the silk to the ground. Lauent is off before the dust has settled, and Kastor follows quickly. 

LAURENT

He wins by a few scant seconds, and the look on his bethrothed’s face makes all the sweat worth it. He can feel his skin is clammy and red, and reaches awkwardly behind him to loosen the laces of his jacket, and get to unlacing the corset underneath, while a palace slave leads his horse away. 

Kastor dismounts, and tosses the reigns to another, coming to him. 

“I guess you really won,” he acknowledges, smiling. 

Laurent can’t catch his breath enough to respond with the barb that’s on his mouth. It really is too hot, and Kastor towers over him easily, making Laurent feel awkwardly small, almost child-like. 

“Let’s get you in the shade. Will someone bring the prince of Vere some iced water?” he calls louder. 

His hand settles easily on Laurent’s shoulder guiding him up the steps and into the cool shaded corridors of the palace. 

He puts his free hand to Laurent’s forehead. His knuckles are rough. “You’re too warm. You’re overheating,” Kastor says. Laurent lets his eyes flutter shut and nods. The pressure on his shoulder is grounding. Those big warm hands are steadying. He thinks he may enjoy his husband touch. May at least, not hate it completely. 

He feels something cool against his lips. 

“Come on, drink this,” Kastor coaxes, but Laurent turns his face away. 

“Y – you,” he says, voice raspy. He really needs to drink. “You drink first.” 

It’s somewhat surprising when Kastor obeys without question, lifting the crystal cut glass to his lips, and taking a few deep gulps. “Kind of you to think of me first,” he says airly. 

When nothing happens to the barbarian he’s chosen, Laurent accepts the water, and drinks in greedy long gulps. He wishes he didn’t feel even warmer at Kastor’s encouraging smile as he goes. 

“I know which rooms you’ve been given,” Kastor says. “Let’s get you there, and get you out of these ridiculous clothes.” 

“We’re not married yet,” Laurent says quietly. It escapes his lips automatically. He wants to delay the inevitable as long as possible, wants to - 

“Oh, please. As if I’d ravish you when you’re stinking of sweat,” Kastor smiles at Laurent’s indignant gasp. 

They walk through the hall sin companiable silence. 

“You ought to wear a chiton in Ios,” Kastor says, after a while. “You’ll catch your death in the heat otherwise, and it will not be pretty.”

“Death never is,” Laurent acknowledges. He isn’t sure how he feels about letting that much of his skin show. 

Kastor pushes the heavy oak doors open. Laurent’s rooms are, as is proper, in the opposite wing from his own. They open into one of the courtyards with fountains and peaches. A slave has already drawn a bath, and is waiting patiently in a perfect obeisance, to be called to assisting the prince. 

“Shall I leave you rest?” Kastor asks. 

Laurent eyes the slave, and the bath, and thinks of the pleasant ache in his muscles after a good ride. He surprises them both when he says:

“No. Stay. Attend me.” 

Kastor orders the slave out. “You know I am only a commoner for a day, until you crown me tomorrow. Better not make a habit of treating me as such.” 

He unlaces Laurent’s jacket deftly, though a part of him wishes to just rip the damned thing off. It’s too complicated by far. 

Beneath the heavy velvet, Laurent is wearing a thin chemise soaked through with sweat, and the most dastardly looking contraption Kastor has seen, which cinches his waist brutally. He gets to unlacing it also. He’d known Veretian women wore such, to appear more slender, but he hadn’t known men wore it also. 

Laurent hisses softly while Kastor works on the laces. The wet white linen sticks to his skin, and beneath it Kastor makes out the bruises shaped after the brutal bone ribbing. 

He runs a finger over them reverently, enjoying Laurent’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Why do you wear it, if it hurts you?” he asks curiously. 

Laurent steps away, no longer needing his assistance, and starts working on the delicate pearl buttons of his shirt. “You like it, don’t you?” he asks coyly, deferring. 

Kasto swallows thickly. He does. It makes Laurent’s already small frame even smaller. Kastor can already imagine wrapping his arms around him. 

Beneath the silk, and velvet, and laces, however, Laurent doesn’t have the physique of someone who spends all his days reading. 

“I train with my guards,” he says, catching Kastor’s gaze. “Does this surprise you?” 

Kastor licks his lips. “Yes.” 

“But do you like it?” 

Kastor’s pretty sure his eyes are answer enough. He is hungry, all of a sudden. Poor Kallias will have a hard time walking, tomorrow. 

Laurent bends down to start undoing the laces of the leather boots climbing all the way up to his thighs. 

“If Isander were here, he’d die happy for a chance to lick them clean,” Kastor says, without thinking. 

“Oh?” Laurent’s lovely gift is with the rest of the party, riding slowly, like reasonable people do. 

“I’d want to see that,” Kastor adds. 

“Me and the slave?” 

“Yes.” 

“My, my. And I thought Akielons were prudes,” laurent steps out of his boots, and is even shorter now. 

“Only sometimes,” Kastor allows. Laurent undoes the laces of his trousers. 

“Do you like what you see?” he asks coyly. 

“Yes,” Kastor is unashamed. “Very much.” 

He urgently needs a few moments alone with his hands, and then some longer moments alone with Kallias. 

It’s not giving up. It’s tactical retreat, when he quickly makes his excuses and leaves Laurent to his bath. 

Laurent sinks into the warm water with a hiss. The ride had really taken it out of him. But the thrill of the wind around him, the freedom, and the knowledge of victory… it made the pain worth it. It would always make the pain worth it. 

He rests his head on the edge of the bath, and lets his eyes flutter closed, just for a few moments. When he opens them next, the water has gone cold. 

Damianos is generous in allowing him the use of the throne room in the palace. He still avoids Laurent – avoids his eyes, and his conversation, always places Kastor between them. He is ashamed, as he should be, Laurent thinks savagely. It is right. 

He stands in the center of the room, wearing his crown – a pale gold and platinum circle, inlaid with sapphires the size of a pheasant egg, and large diamonds, and he clutches in one hand his scepter, and in the other, his sword. He is at once, to be king, and commander of the Veretian forces, and he is ready to choose his companion in this fight. 

“Kastor,” he says. “You come to me, a man with no country, no family, and no name. You have no title. You have no lands. Do you come to me, of your own free will?” 

“Yes,” Kastor says, speaking to his reflection in Laurent’s polished boots. 

“I, Laurent, crown prince of Vere, second son of the Veretian Royal family, in the name of the Veretian kingdom, and crown, bestow on you the right to Veretian citizenship, for you, and all heirs of your direct line, to obey and be governed by the law of Vere, and to be protected within the borders of the Veretian nation, as rightful subjects to the royal family.

I further bequeath to you the following titles: lord-commander of the military forces of Revanel, and marques-governor of the province Delpheur, lord protector of the crown’s holdings of Aquitart, and, upon our marriage – prince consort of Vere, until such a time comes, as my ascension to the throne, where you may call yourself King Consort of Vere. 

Any and all heirs of your direct line, shall henceforth be known and recognizes as heirs with a claim to the throne of Vere, and claimed and recognized as my heirs also, begotten of the royal house of Vere.

Now rise, Kastor, as my fiancée, as my chosen one, as citizen of my country, and my subject.” 

Kastor stands up obediently. Laurent is standing on the steps to the throne, so he is taller, and Kastor must look up to meet his eyes. 

Carefully Laurent lays down the scepter and sword on the crimson cushion provided for precisely this purpose, and takes up the crown meant for Kastor. It’s a bright, near blinding yellow gold, with beautiful etchings of lions, holding up in their paws a single red ruby. 

Either the Veretian royal family has lion-themed jewelry in their vaults, or laurent has commissioned it for him. He bows his head, and feels its weight settle on him. He looks up again. Laurent isn’t smiling at him, but there’s something akin to satisfaction in his cold eyes. The courtier in brown – the one with the mouthy pet – starts clapping. Slowly the rest of the Veretian nobles follow suit, and then the Akielons. Laurent nods, curtly, and Kastor nods back. It’s done now. There is no turning back. 

The dinner this time is Veretian style, a lavish, too-complex affair. Kastor wants to tell Laurent to go easy on the griva. 

“Something on your mind, fiancée?” 

“We will be married this time tomorrow,” Laurent says. 

“Indeed,” Kastor is in a good mood. A crown is resting on his head, right where it belongs, and he is marrying into kingship. It seems less a dream now. 

“That woman – the one who’s talking to Vannes. Who is she?” Laurent asks, apropos of nothing. 

Kastor follows his gaze. The yellow hair and pale blue dress are answer enough, even without seeing her face. 

“That is – the lady Jokaste. She and my brother were – “

“Were? Whatever happened?” Laurent sounds genuinely curious. 

Griva and waiting have stretched his nerves too thin for wordplay. He says, plainly. “I did.” 

Comprehension dawns on Laurent. “Oh.” 

“Yes,” Kastor says, unhappily. “Oh.” 

“She was going to help you?” 

“Was. Is. It doesn’t matter. She’s leaving court after the wedding.” 

“Will you miss her?” Laurent asks, curiously. There’s no jealousy in his voice that Kastor can detect, though it’s becoming clear to him that Laurent is much more adept at lying. 

“I wasn’t in love with her,” he says vaguely. 

“That isn’t a no,” Laurent’s eyes follow the two women as they take a turn around the room. 

“It isn’t.” Kastor will miss Jokaste. For her conversation and quick wit. For the promise of what they could have achieved together. But missing her is a small price to pay for never having to be reminded of his almost-actions. 

“My children,” Kastor says. “You said that my children – “ 

“My line,” Laurent’s voice is measured and careful. “ends with me. I am not a lover of women. I do not enjoy their company in bed. But I know you are.” 

“You want me to continue the royal house of Vere?” Kastor asks. 

“After a way,” Laurent agrees and raises his goblet to his lips. “Bastards are… not respected, in Vere. I start by marrying one, then claiming one into the family… And if you and I rule long enough –“ 

“By the time any child of mine ascends to the throne, they will be accepted,” Kastor finishes. “Seems rather a long game to play.” 

“I am all about the long game,” Laurent says. “It may not seem like it. But believe me. Waiting is all I know.” 

“Me too,” Kastor says. “I’ve waited my whole life for this.” 

He doesn’t mean the wedding. He knows that Laurent knows it. 

He walks his fiancée to his rooms in the dying light of the torches that line the walls. 

“I will see you tomorrow, at the altar,” he says sincerely. “I hope you are ready.” 

It brings a smile to Laurent’s lips. “I hope you are,” he counters. 

“You never told me,” Kastor murmurs, leaning closer to the younger man. “You never told me what you wanted… for winning our race.” 

Laurent takes a step back, it’s graceful, and carefully done, but a clear message to back off. 

“I want,” Laurent closes his eyes ,and breathes deeply. He looks as though he is steeling himself. “I want to wear a dress tomorrow.” 

It’s Kastor’s turn to take a step back, in surprise. He’s glad he wasn’t holding anything, else he would have surely dropped it. “Any… particular reason?” he asks when he finds his voice. 

“It was my mother’s,” Laurent says. “And she had no daughters. And Auguste didn’t. And I do not – will not – “ 

“I’ll be happy to see you in anything,” Kastor says. “So long as we get married.” 

Laurent’s smile is a sweet, near-genuine thing. “I shall see you tomorrow, then.” 

And he disappears into his rooms. 

In the morning, bright and awash with blazing sunlight at the altar, Kastor waits. 

Damen stands beside him in regal glory, the lion pin on his shoulder reflecting thepink rays of sunrise. The sea crashes hopelessly into the white cliffs that hold up the palace which Kastor will never again rule over. 

The gardens are strewn about with white and gold, and musicians play a song that manages to combine Vere’s mournful lyric tradition, with the upbeat sound of Akielos. Nicaise walks first, holding the cushion where the rings are, and his fingers are digging into the velvet. 

“All rise for his royal highness, Laurent crown prince of Vere and Aquitart,” the ambassador, Guyon, calls. He’s had the distinct look, in the last few months, of a man who’s been force fed lemons. Beside him, his son looks pretty and entirely unaffected. 

Kastor only has eyes for the pathway, and the line of his gaze travels to the figure of Laurent, walking alone. He is royalty, and he will not be given away. 

Kastor had walked first, as the congregation of nobility watched, standing, and measuring his every step. Laurent looks, in Kastor’s opinion, much more self-possessed. 

The dress is a beautiful cream color, made of layers and layers of a soft fabric that looks to almost shimmer in the bright sun. His waist is cinched much tighter than Kastor’s seen it usually, and the tight bodice is embroidered with blue birds and golden lions. His shoulders are bare, his collarbones revealed, and beautiful. The sight of them makes Kastor’s mouth water. He wants to crush the fine voluminous fabric between his hands. 

The sleeves are large, obscuring Laurent’s arms in delicate creamy clouds, so that only his hands are visible. For once, his golden hair is loose, falling freely down, over his baed shoulders, and to the small of his back, held only by the heavy crown. 

He stands in front of Kastor and the nobles sit. Kastor is eye to eye with the glittering stones in his crown, as though that is who Kastor is actually marrying. 

Damen clears his throat. 

Kastor knows he won’t walk away. Cannot walk away from this now. There is a throne in the palace in Arles, which was meant for Auguste, who Damen killed, which now belongs to Laurent’s uncle. But when all is said and done, and the dust has settled, in a year or so, Laurent will sit on it. And there will be a place for Kastor in his kingdom. 

So he opens his mouth, and he says his vows. 

He vows to be loyal, and protect the crown of Vere. He vows to obey the crown, and love the crown and cherish the crown. He vows in all his actions to think of the crown first. 

He vows to be a true and loyal husband to Laurent. 

Laurent vows to let no man stand between them in their marriage. 

Their rings are heavy, ancient. Theomedes had them set aside for Kastor’s wedding. Had promised to bless any of Kastor’s unions, to give Kastor’s children titles. 

A lion’s head graces the ring he slides of Laurent’s slender finger. His own is the lioness. In this marriage, he shall be subservient, if he must. A crown is a crown. A throne is a throne. 

Their kiss is chaste and sweet. Laurent’s lips taste like something he can’t quite place – some sweet fruit, something out of season. 

He puts an arm around Laurent’s waist. 

“Are you happy?” he asks into the folds of all that beautiful hair. 

Laurent is looking straight ahead, to where the ambassador is sitting. “Not yet. But I will be.” 

Kastor knows this much will have to do.

They spend the rest of the day sitting side by side on the raised dais, to watch the games organized in their honor. Damen is in good humor on Kastor’s other side, well pleased by the sun, his brother’s happiness, and Erasmus, like a cat, sitting at his feet, and looking up at him adoringly. 

Closer to sunrise is when the slaves set the long tables and bring out the wedding feast. Laurent and Kastor trade cups of sweet wine, and then griva. Laurent leads Kastor through an overly-complicated Veretian dance, somehow managing not to trip over the massive skirts of his dress, though Kastor has no such luck. When he picks Luarent up by the waist and twirls him, the dress flares out, and makes a sound like an arrow passing through the wind. Laurent leans into his arms and laughs, flushed with drink, and the energy he’s exerted into dancing. 

When a drunken Veretian starts up a chant of “Consummation,” they make the choice for a tactical retreat. 

It’s easier than he’d thought, to grab Laurent in his arms, and lift him up. The dress is just as fluffy and pleasant to the touch as it looks. Laurent wraps his arms around Kastor’s neck, seemingly content with being carried. 

In Kastor’s rooms, he lets his prince down, and lets him fuss with the layers of taffeta. 

“You are very beautiful,” he says earnestly. He pours a chalice of the sweet tea he has Kalias keep in his rooms and offers it to Laurent. It will do the pretty Veretian flower good, after a day in the sun. 

When Laurent doesn’t reach for the glass, he remembers. He takes a few sips first, and offers it again. This time Laurent takes it. Their fingers brush. 

“You too,” Laurent says, looking down at his drink. “I was worried about that. Before.”  
“That I may be… what? Ugly?” Kastor laughs. 

“I could live with a barbarian,” Laurent says, haughtily. “But not an ugly one.” 

Kastor lets out a full-throated laugh at that, throwing his head back. 

“I’m glad I meet your standard, your highness,” he says. “I should certainly hope you don’t entirely hate being married to me.” 

“I won’t. Or rather. I don’t think I will.” Laurent circles around to stand in front of Kastor.  
“Aimeric was watching you both, you know. You, and your brother. To pick one.” 

“You were going to proposition Damen?” Kastor can’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “After what he –“ 

“Whichever one of you was a better fit. For me. For Vere.”

Kastor tries to imagine Laurent going to bed with Damen, when he’d heard all the rumors of his vitriolic hate for his brother’s killer. A man cold enough to do that – to be prepared to do that – 

“I chose you,” Laurent says, in a voice that leaves no room for questioning. 

“So you did.” Kastor agrees. He takes perverse pleasure in it. For once, he is the first choice. He’s been looked at, and not found lacking. Not in his birth, and not in any other way. The thought leaves him giddy, and he leans in, and crushes his mouth to Laurent’s. 

His lips are soft, and he yields into the kiss, letting Kastor grab a fistful of beautiful blonde hair, and grab him by the waist, pressing close, so close – 

He stops only when he needs to beathe, and Laurent is looking at him dazed. He raises a hanf to his mouth, feeling the burn of Kastor’s beard. 

Carefully, slowly, he reaches and removes his crown, settling it delicately on the table. 

“Consummation,” he echoes the chant of the drunken nobles outside. He reaches behind him and undoes the laces that hold the dress together. 

“What do you want, King-Consort Kastor of Vere?” Laurent asks quietly, looking at him through his impossibly long golden lashes. 

Kastor takes a step forward, and rests his hands on Laurent’s pale oval shoulders, breathing out softly “You.” 

Laurent is terribly, impossibly still. He says “Then take me.” 

It’s meant to sound sweet and seductive, but there is real fear in his voice, a tremor. Kastor steps back, stops touching him. 

“Are you a virgin, Laurent?” he asks. 

His new husband avoids his gaze when he says “No.” 

“There’s no need to be ashamed,” Kastor says. “I don’t expect you to be. I’m not.” 

“I know,” Laurent cuts him off, near snappish. 

“I know what you may have heard,” Kastor says. “About us, barbarians. I’m not a rapist. I won’t force you. We can not, and then we just say we did.” 

“You’re hard.” Laurent points out. 

“It’s a common, and entirely unthreatening condition,” Kastor says. “I’ll call for my slave, and have a bath. You get out of that heavy dress, and get in bed. I’ll try not to wake you.” 

Laurent is looking away again. “Are you sure?” 

“Quite. That’s what slaves and pets are for, isn’t it? If you feel like it, later, we still can.” 

Laurent nods numbly. Kastor runs a hand through his hair. The ring catches on a lock.  
He’s frustrated for sure, but not nearly enough to let it show. Certainly not enough to be violent. He doesn’t want to start their marriage on that note, doesn’t want to be the brute Veretians surely see him as. 

Sweet Kallias will have to do for tonight. And maybe, for the nights after. 

He’s halfway out the door, so he almost misses the barely spoken “Thank you.” 

LAURENT

Laurent lets the door close behind Kastor, and drops into one of the plush armchairs, his mother’s dress bunching around him like a cloud of gossamer. The room is warm, and the windows let in the breeze from the sea. 

He almost doesn’t notice when Nicaise comes in. 

“Prince Kastor said you needed me?” he sounds unsure, casting his eyes over the room. “I don’t believe you two finished that quickly.” 

“We didn’t,” Laurent says. Nicaise looks at him for a long time, waiting for elaboration, but Laurent feels like he’s swallowed fire. Finally, Nicaise gives up, and walks towards him. 

“Let me help you out of this, then,” he says. “Isander can draw you a bath.” 

“You’re getting on with him, then?” 

“I’m head of your household. I’m supposed to get on with all your possessions.” A pause. “He knows just enough Veretian, that we can get by.” 

Laurent stands, and lets Nicaise work on sliding the dress down his body. 

“So where has high highness, your husband, off to, then?” 

“To find his slave.” Laurent says, impassively. 

“So he won’t fuck you, but he’ll fuck a sl- “ 

“I won’t fuck him,” Laurent corrects coldly. He doesn’t have to see Nicaise’s face to get see his expression. 

“Why ever not? He’s handsome!” 

“I don’t want him to touch me.” Laurent snarls, just as Nicaise gets the dress over his hips, and it falls in a pool of cloudy fabric over his ankles.

“Bullshit,” Nicaise says. “Step out now.”

Laurent obeys. “You do want him touching you,” Nicaise continues. “You wrote him all those letters, didn’t you. And then, as soon as you saw him, Oh, he’s so broad, oh, his jaw, oh his big hands,” he adds in a mockery of Laurent’s highborn accent. 

Laurent turns around and slaps him sharply across his face. 

“Know your place.” he snarls. Nicaise stumbles back, raising a hand to his cheek, startled. “I have been more than indulgent with you, but you are out of line. Apologize to me. Now.” 

“I am sorry, your highness,” Nicaise bites out. 

“Good.” Laurent straightens his shoulders. “I’m sorry too. For slapping you. Don’t ever speak to me that way again. No matter what you think, we are not equals, and I am not your friend.” 

Nicaise’s cheek is turning red, and his eyes hold something savage in them, a kind of fury that Laurent knows well. 

“Do you still want me to call the slave, your highness?” Nicaise asks through gritted teeth. 

“No.” Laurent says. “I believe I am going to go find my husband.” 

He grabs one of the sheets the Akielons so enjoy referring to as “clothes” and pins it in place with one of Kastor’s pins. It feels… pleasant, to be wearing something that marks him as his husband’s. 

It’s easy to find Kastor in the royal baths. 

His slave, Kallias, is feeding him while Kastor pets his back. 

“Have you come to see how a barbarian fucks?” Kastor offers. There’s no malice in his voice. “Maybe if you see me take care of Kallias, it will… dispel some of your uncertainty.” he adds. 

“May this one speak?” Kallias asks sweetly. 

“Yes,” Kastor says, near-dismissal. 

“Prince Kastor is… very kind. In bed. Giving. He won’t… hurt you.” 

Kastor’s mouth curves in a pleased smile, and he kisses the top of his slave’s head. “My sweet little one. Such kind words.” 

The slave blushes, and makes a pretty sight of it. Laurent sits at the edge of the pool, and dips his feet in the warm water. He is hard, and he is curious. 

“Show me then. How a barbarian fucks.” 

Kastor’s grin is positively wolfish. 

“And there I was worried I had a cold and frigid bride,” he says lightly. “Get on your hand sand knees, my dear. Let’s show my new husband that I’m not wholly awful.” 

Kallias is quick to obey. From where he is sitting, Laurent can look at his face. He looks near rapture, as Kastor runs his hands over his body. 

“Show my husband how good you can be for me,” Kastor says with a glance at Laurent. “For us,” he corrects. Laurent smiles. 

They are an “us” now. 

It’s… illuminating, watching Kastor touch the slave. He does fuck like a barbarian, his body coiled tight with force, but there’s no brutality in it. He’s selfish, but that can be amended. And most importantly, he doesn’t look away from Laurent’s face. 

Laurent feels hot and faint, like the day they raced to Ios, and he can’t quite catch his breath. He’s hot, but too frozen in place to do anything about it. 

“Leave us now, little one,” Kastor orders. “I believe my beloved needs tending to.” 

Kallias is quick to obey, and when they are alone, Kastor turns to Laurent. 

“Isn’t that true, sweetest one? My darling husband. Do you want me to take care of you?” 

Laurent’s mouth is dry. It takes him a few times to manage out a “yes”. That Kastor is so ready for a second go, so soon after, is an interesting avenue, and something Laurent wil have something to say about. Later. 

“Do you want to take me, tender one?” Kastor asks. He is approaching Laurent slowly, carefully, his arms loose at his sides. “Or do you want me inside you?”

Laurent can’t help the noise that escapes him. 

“Or shall I use my mouth?” Kastor continues. “Leave my marks on your beautiful thighs, so tomorrow everyone will know what we did – “ 

They end up doing all of it. In the baths, and then back in their rooms. 

Laurent aches all over when he wakes. Beside him, Kastor is sleeping still, warm and solid, one arm thrown loosely over Laurents bruised waist. 

The crown he left on the table is there still, gleaming in the fresh light. Laurent closes his eyes again. 

This is a marriage he will enjoy, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> And here is the lovely art: https://chuislane.tumblr.com/post/180768607040/art-for-velveteenvampire-s-capri-big-bang


End file.
